* Due to the current state of economy, the Condo News is published every other week until further notice. 

Last Updated 09/30/2012

Remembering Jerry

By Royce Emley, Tequesta, FL

Back in 1970 I had started an advertising agency in West Palm Beach and I was very involved with the marketing of condos. I was placing advertising for that condo they blew up last year down on Flagler Drive, Juno by the Sea in Juno Beach, Sims Creek in Jupiter and a host of other condos like the Trump Plaza that at the time was called the Plaza built by Bob Armor. This guy Jerry Heacock showed up at my office and told me he was starting a newspaper he was going to call the Condo News and would give me some great rates if I would advertise. Jerry was very brash, but I sensed a warm heart behind the façade. He made it possible for my fledgling advertising agency to do full page ads for my clients at a great price. He did all the work including the writing and the distribution back then. He made me look good in the eyes of my clients and built himself a great paper well ahead of its time. At first the main stream media scoffed at this small paper that only did news articles on condos and thought it was only for Century Village since it was the prominent condo in the area at the time

We did business together for a few years as more and more condos were built until I quit the business. The memory of Jerry and the Condo News is a dim memory from another time, I retired a decade ago and it has been over 40 years since the Condo News came out. But when I see places like Singer Island all I can think of is Jerry telling me how our whole economic future was going to be based on Condos in the years to come. How true his words were. I now go to the Condo News’ website and reminisce knowing buried among the words, photos and electronic bytes lives the spirit of Jerry Heacock.

— Royce Emley,

Tequesta FL.

Jerry Heacock,  1985

Editor’s note: Jerry Heacock passed away July 20, 1998

Ages of Happiness

by Arnie Dickerman

Happiness. What makes me happy? What being happy means to me: The word happiness to me requires more than a simple answer. What once made me happy instantaneously or long lasting, as I analyze the source of being happy, were made up of very diverse situations. As a young child I received instant gratification which at that moment in time made me happy. For example a new toy or game, or a chocolate ice cream soda, my "new" second hand bicycle, hitting a "homer" in a stickball game, riding on the "whip", "swing" and merry-go-round, that arrived on a "Ride-Truck" on my street during Summertime, a sweat laden Punch Ball Game, followed by the participants cooling down at the local candy store. Most definitely the happiest as a school-child, occurred when June 30th arrived each year. School vacation began, and it was legend with my folks that on that particular finality of school I would announce: " I am so happy that I could jump up to the sky". But I as most children too soon realize, happiness isn’t an unending state of lasting euphoria. The once new toy or game wasn’t thrilling after a while and in fact was tossed aside replaced with a desire anticipating the next new exciting gift. The delicious chocolate ice cream soda sipped by straw down to the bottom of the vase-like glass , disappeared too quickly and was gone together with the satisfaction it brought while it lasted. Striking out next time at bat in the stickball game immediately took the thrill of the "home run" that preceded it. The truck rides lasted but for a short time, until Summer was over along with the enjoyment they brought. July and August sneaked up to a sudden realization that Labor Day was approaching fast and that the feeling of joy as if I was walking on a cloud, would soon turn into a source of preoccupation of going back to school. Why you may wonder, or already have guessed … that my wonderful school- free days. And the fun Summertime brought, was fleeting too quickly, and you know how "time flies" when you are having a good time. While the dreaded specter of the end of this most joyous season was coming to an end, and being reinforced by the reminder as the "back to school" sales were advertised in August, was enough to put any kid into a funk

As the years came and went so did the sources of happiness arise and wane. Appropriately the Summer vacations were now replaced by time off from a job, the bicycles now were replaced by the joy of purchasing a new car, I still enjoyed then and do now love chocolate ice cream sodas, but the street games were left for the next generation to enjoy. As an adult the world opened up to new vistas of happiness to explore and find the joys that life offers. Happy times, being in love, marriage, the birth of each one of my three sons, observing their childhood and their becoming successful adults, creating their own families, which brought me the greatest joy and happiness in my life, when they presented me with each one of my two grandsons and two granddaughters.

Now as I share my life with Maddy, looking back on 52 years of marriage, I find a great deal of happiness in the accomplishments that Maddy and I having created in what I consider our own dynasty. Of course along the way there were tears of joy as well as tears of sadness. We both comforted each other when there was a miscarriage, when illness struck, and when we lost our parents. Looking back for the most part though, the happiness of our years together overshadowed the sad times 1000 fold.

Retiring and subsequently relocating to Florida, and living here, has provided my most recent perception of what happiness means to me.

Whether being a child or an adult a myriad of sources of being happy can be fleeting or last a lifetime. Too numerous and obviously almost if not impossible to hone in on. What makes me happy comes from what I consider my success, contentment, fulfillment, satisfaction, security, serenity, relatively good health, A low PSA, together with a clean bill of health after my last Doctor visit, accepting what being relatively perceived by fellow residents as a "kid" in Covered Bridge, but in reality an older man of 75 years of age. Finally finding the time and freedom to pursue and express my own suppressed desires, be it singing, or writing. Observing my progeny being my children and grandchildren, hot pastrami on rye sandwiches from the a local deli, my wife of 52 years, residing in South Florida, particularly in Covered Bridge. … I would say that I can best describe HAPPINESS being in a "good place in life" …….in essence a happy State Of Mind!

The Yahrzeit Candle

Special to the Condo News

By Geoffrey Kashdan

Originally published in the Condo News on Dec. 30, 1999

For me, it was a day no different than any other day. There was breakfast to make and a work day to face. It was a day in which the routines of my life carried me from place to place with little thought. Predictable sameness. Perhaps that is why I forgot.

That day, you see, marked a major event in my life and in the lives of all of the members of my family. That day was the anniversary of the death of my father. It was my father’s Yahrzeit. Although I had forgotten, forgetting that Yahrzeit was something my mother could never do. "Fifty-two years with a man; you don’t forget!" she would say. But forgetting stuff like that is something I would do.

And, thus, the annual phone call to the errant son, "Jeff, did you get a candle for your father’s Yahrzeit?"

Actually, I had purchased the special candle some months ago. "Yes, Mom, of course. And I will not forget to light it." I even made a phone call to my answering machine, "Jeff," I ordered, "light the candle. Just do it!"

In spite of everything, I forgot to light the candle until the end of the day. Why, I wondered, am I taking part in this senseless ceremony. I pondered on some of the many silly customs I knew from the T.V. National Geographic specials and from my own world travels. People do all sorts of strange things, I thought, as I lit the candle. And now I am doing something strange myself. In this house, with me as its sole occupant, I am lighting a candle to a man long dead. NO one would know if I did or did not light the candle. So, why?

The Yahrzeit candle is no ordinary affair. It is the size of a juice glass and, in fact, the glass container of the candle becomes a juice glass in many Jewish families. Care must be taken when purchasing the Yahrzeit candles throughout the year so that, once the candles are melted away, the remaining glass containers will make a matching set of juice glasses. I have always suspected that the people who design Yahrzeit candle glasses keep in mind what the empty glass would look like with orange juice inside instead of a white candle. (What do you call a person who designs Yahrzeit candle glasses — a Yahrzeit Engineer?)

Aside from the juice-glass shape and size of the candle, the other salient fact about this special religious artifact is that these candles burn for up to twenty-four hours. This makes the placement of the candle a concern. Certainly, no one should lose a house to a Yahrzeit candle fire. That would be more than a shame; it would be blasphemous.

So, as I lit my Yahrzeit candle I considered the possibility that the heating of the glass might do damage to my table top. An easy solution is to place it on a ceramic plate. I got one of my new plates and placed my father’s candle on it and put the combined candle-plate on the dining room table. I wondered if my father would have liked the set of dishes the plate came from. I imagined that he would. The set has a simple design and he liked simple things.

Turning the lights off I let the glow illuminate the room. I had to admit, the soft light of the candle made that table and Italian leather chairs look so good. My father would have liked those chairs too, and for the same reason. They were of simple design. Had he ever seen them? Some deep thinking determined that I had no idea of when I bought the dining room set.

But I did know that my father died in 1987. 1987! Wow! Could it have been that long ago? He’s been dead eleven years now. It just doesn’t seem possible. My youngest daughter was only nine years old then. I remember that he requested in his fading voice that her photograph be placed over the face of the clock in his hospital room. He said that he hated to lie there in bed and watch time passing. Time, he often said, was his enemy. He felt tortured by the hours, as well as the pain of tubes and needles. Time also exacerbated the boredom and intensified the hopelessness. Better to look at the picture of his smiling granddaughter. Her face brought him the only antidote to the misery that the technology of medical science forced him to suffer. If he had to stay alive then he could at least find some comfort. Her picture on that clock made the time endurable.

The candle burned with a steady flame. A warm orange glow softened the features of my dining room and eased away the flaws of scratches, dust and smudge marks on the walls and counters. Everything had a magical radiation.

I wondered what the candle would "do" to my patio. The patio is my pride and joy. I spend hundreds of hours and dollars cosseting the plants and enhancing the two fish ponds, one with a waterfall. I took the Yahrzeit candle with its new ceramic plate base outside. On the patio it did wonderful things to the water in the ponds. My father would have loved this. In fact, he did love my patio. The candle sat in the same place he sat during the last years of his life.

My mother would call me. "Jeff, would you ‘watch’ your father? I have to go out and I can’t leave him alone... not in his condition." I could hear the angst in her voice. His dependency weighed heavily upon her. And I was their only child within two thousand miles.

"No," I replied. "I will not ‘watch’ my father. But I will spend time with him … father-son time, man to man. If he would like to spend time with his son, I would love to have him over."

"Thank you," my mother responded. "Thank you."

Right there, where that candle now burned, my father sat and worked on a project I had prepared for him. When I was a small boy, he would prepare easy wood projects for me. Now I had prepared an easy wood project for him. He would make a tiny puppet theater for Lara, the granddaughter whose picture helped him to cope with time in his final days. My father, now "my son," sat where that candle glowed and sanded the wood work for the puppet theater. Father and son had transferred roles without a word, almost too easily. He was so happy to make that theater for his granddaughter. I remembered his joy. Yes, I remembered it well.

Now, eleven years later, I sat by myself on my patio. The waterfall made the only music I needed and that Yahrzeit candle bathed the leaves of the garden with just enough light. I sat there in the glow of the light and the memories, and, as in an epiphany, I finally understood the reason for a Yahrzeit candle. After eleven years of his absence, I had spent a quiet, simple evening with my father. He would have loved that. He loved simple things.

I had train tickets to head to NJ on 9/11, arriving at the station in WPB learned the trains were going only as far as Richmond - no explanation - and my friends drove me back home where I arrived in time to turn on the T.V. (George) was already in NJ, and my "diary" helped me thru the next few days, until my trip was planned again for two days later. Here it is:

The station is quite crowded, due to the absence of available flights.Upon learning the train is already 90 minutes late, no one complains. We start comparing our reactions to the WTC tragedy. The most prevalent comment is that we have learned to re-order our priorities. Things that used to seem important no longer are.

In the lounge car I overhear "John" explaining to the conductor that he had prepaid for a sleeper, and cannot understand why one is not available now. On doctor’s orders he is taking a train, because he had a heart attack five days earlier.

Many passengers detrain for the 20 minute stop, in order to view the television in the station. No further attacks, no immediate retaliation. All breathe a sign of relief. I’m now in my sleeper and see "John" with wife "Mary" in the same car. A no-show gave them the rest they needed badly. They confide that Mary’s father had died the day after John’s heart attack. Mary had to choose between attending the funeral or being at her husband’s bedside.

I note a man sitting on the platform with a red, white, and blue ribbon on his shirt. He’s not waiting for a train, simply grieving. The train slows as we pass the Pentagon. Most passengers have gathered in the lounge car. Silence reigns as we pass other Washington landmarks. There is a sudden need to exchange names and addresses. We are no longer strangers.

My husband is waiting on the platform for me. I’d been concerned since cell phone calls were not going thru and I couldn’t reach him. Leaving the station, we walk several blocks to the car because there is a five block perimeter guarded by FBI and bomb squads - quite sobering. This is the time to show support by lighting candles. During the ride, we pass many lit candles, on sidewalks, curbs, in front of houses. Newspapers had been saved for me, and in one I discover a photo of our son, with his Rescue Squad, transporting a victim.

A young man sitting in front of me is looking at newly developed photos he took on September 9th, of the WTC, with the Statue of Liberty in the foreground. Visiting family in Jersey City, he had an unobstructed view of the event, but no photos of the tragedy - "I couldn’t look."

In the lounge we meet two Rescue Squad workers, returning south after eleven days working at the WTC. Everyone wants to shake their hands and thank them. Their response is, "The New York Fire Department deserves all the praise, not us."

Oh, My

An Essay by Noe Diaz

Somebody made up the word "foodie," and I suppose it’s someone that eats and has something to say about it. You could be famous, become famous, like Julia Childs, or obscure like your mom.

Back in my day, say fifty years ago, if you went out to dinner with some frequency, you could fancy yourself a gourmet. I fell into that delusion because of my sweet wife. Her idea of adventure was dinner out on Sundays, driving anywhere for that divine lobster Newburg forty miles away. I’d drive all over the county because of her discriminating palate. I didn’t care. It was better than dozing off on the couch.

My domain was Saturday nights, a good tough guy movie, a banana split, and a lovely wife that said love is near and getting closer.

What kind of gourmet was I? I could pronounce some French or Italian words correctly. That kind. I could critique a place and sound as la-de-da as anybody else. Virginia’s comments, on the other hand, had insights about the food. She was happy, and I saw her anew in her joy. I discovered that watching people at a dinner table was watching them reveal themselves. They were more interesting than the food. Famous foodies are fun to watch. Rachel Ray looks like a small town short-order cook at a diner, but within minutes she has a five-course meal looking so good you want to reach into the TV for one of those plates.

Then there’s the know-it-all Martha Stewart. She starts in her herb garden for the spices she’ll use, then on to a kitchen that rivals the White House kitchen, and while dicing potatoes, gives a scholarly dissertation on potatoes, something like this:

"The potato is New World. Didn’t come from Ireland; it’s the other way around. Has far more calories than grain. Doesn’t have to be harvested; can be left in the ground. It won’t freeze. In late winter, when serfs were going hungry, they would dig some up and not have to share it with the lord of the manor because he wouldn’t know of the potatoes left in the field." She knows stuff like that. This lady is a very fine chef and a brainiac.

Julia Childs, with her stiff demeanor, was food royalty. She oozed with kindness and grace and could drop names without showing off. She did know anybody worth knowing.

Lots of faces promote pasta sauce. The most famous and beloved is Paul Newman. Then there’s Dom DeLuise. I think of Chef Boyardee and macaroni and cheese. (See how insufferable I can be?) What’s the point of all this? Sure, I have a point, and I’m getting to it.

One day, my sweet wife tells me a bambino is on its way. Well, now, we’ll need another bedroom, washer/dryer, etc. My income was maxed, so I started moonlighting on weekends by driving an airport limousine.

On the last flight arriving were two passengers needing a ride. Heading into town, one passenger asks about the Statler Inn on the Cornell campus. "Is it nice?" I assured him it is and the food is quite good. "What about the street restaurants?" he asks.

I rattled off a few I knew and recommended. The other passenger now speaks up and intones: "There are no good street restaurants in Ithaca. None."

I hear this amateur then begin to rattle off names of places I’ve been to around the county and points beyond. I get a little tired showing off and end with, "You think you know better, who are you?"

"My name is Duncan Hines."

"What?!" I yelled.

In the ‘50s, the most respected name, the only name I knew, was that one. Restaurateurs ached for a visit and recommendation by this guy. If you met his approval, you could hang a shingle that said, "Recommended by Duncan Hines." Now reservations were necessary and well in advance. He had power of influence. Once, he came into a restaurant, and, as usual, unannounced and with looks unknown. He orders a salad that says "with Roquefort cheese." But it’s not, it’s blue cheese. He exposes this fraud in print, and almost immediately the place closes permanently.

I have nothing more to say about food; I just eat it. I think Mr. Hines enjoyed his ride home, and my discomfort.

Essays by Tony Senzamici

Fighting Physical Fitness

Many years ago, I really did not give my physical or mental condition much thought. I was in excellent condition, both body wise and mentally, perhaps due to being in our family construction business, and then 4 years in the Marine Corps, and then 20 + years in the NYPD in various details requiring physical fitness.

After retiring, the physical part of my life did not seem so important, so naturally, I just took life real easy. Having started to work at a very early age (9 years old) out of necessity and compulsion in the family business, this seemed too good to be true — I am actually being paid to stay home. I got a pension. WOW !!!

The years started passing by quickly. I was enjoying life to the fullest, everything was right with the world, dinners out 3 or 4 times a week, late hours out, no strings attached to anything I wanted to do — things could not be better.

About 4 years into retirement, we got an invitation to a wedding, so naturally out came the suit, sport jackets, shirts, etc. Unfortunately, the only thing that fit me were my socks. So off we went for new clothes. Somehow, when you buy bigger sizes, it makes you look like you lost weight. So that problem was solved.

My wife suggested that I start an exercise program but I didn’t think it was necessary as I only gained a couple of pounds and I could shed that in no time if I wanted to.

As luck would have it, a couple of years later, we were invited to go on a cruise with some friends. Of course, you have to have a new wardrobe. So again, off we go for new clothes — only 1 size larger.

During this cruise, another retired friend and I discussed how much weight we were gaining while on retirement, so we decided to start an exercise program when we got back home as he had some equipment in his garage.

We started the program, beginning with the stationary bike, treadmill, sit-ups and some barbells. We worked out for about 45 minutes twice a week. After about a month, we didn’t seem to lose any weight and we thought we were wasting our time. So we were going to quit. Unfortunately, one of our wives heard us talking about quitting and reminded us that we should not bring a couple of six packs of beer into the garage during the workout and then, after we finish our workout we were not supposed to sit by the pool pigging out drinking beer and eating sandwiches for two hours each time.

As a result we have stopped the program (just the exercise part), but not the beer drinking and eating. The wife’s sarcasm really made us feel bad and hurt our feelings.

Yeah, now I know how hard it is to lose a couple of pounds, but I still do not have to go to the "big man’s" shop yet for cloths — not yet anyway.

There is one good aspect to all this and it is that our Goodwill organization that collects clothes for the needy really loves us. Each month, they get a bag full of clothes, some with the price tags still on them.

ITCHY, ITCHY, ITCHY

A few weeks ago, I was being prepped for a nuclear body scan which I should have had eight years ago but kept putting it off until my doctor decided to put her foot down — unfortunately right on my ego.

I suppose by now you guessed what the scan is for so I won’t elaborate, so let me clue you in on the prepping schedule.

To begin with, I had to receive an injection each day for two days. I have no idea why, so I left it up to the doctors because, even if they told me, I wouldn’t have understood a word they said. Each day, I had a different nurse who decided where SHE wanted to do the injection, so being very humble and embarrassed, I humiliated myself and submitted my tush for the first shot because the nurse said it is important it be given there. The second shot the next nurse said it didn’t matter so I took it in the arm. Did these two nurses go to different schools? Did they discuss my tush ?

Now as my luck would have it, I had to travel to another location because our local hospital did not have this expensive medication I am to receive. It took only 5 minutes (including waiting time) to get the shot and I am on my way home. I could have taken the second shot home with me and given it to myself and saved time and gas.

Now comes the fun part ... On the third day, I am to swallow a radio active pill. The nurse comes into the room all decked out with hazard gowns, mask, gloves and a lead container with a set of tongs, takes out the pill and tells me to swallow it. I thought, "Shouldn’t I be able to at least see the face that may be doing me in? Am I going to be glowing at night like a split atom? Will my wife still respect me in the morning if I am twinkling like a star?"

Well, now it is time for the SCAN. I was told to lay down on a table and the technician wrapped me up in sheets in such a way that I could not move my arms. After five minutes on the table I knew why. I started to itch in places that I didn’t know I had. I remember when I was in Marine boot camp with all the sand fleas around us. I also remembered the Marine Corps movie "The Death of a Sand Flea." Heaven help you if you moved to kill one and the D.I. saw you. He would make you wish your father never met your mother. Unfortunately, this training did not help me in this situation. All I kept thinking was that this procedure was supposed to last an hour and I have only been on the table for five minutes, and to make matters worse, this is only one of three scans that I have to have.

I was kind of thinking maybe the CIA could use this procedure instead of "Water Boarding." I am sure it would be more effective. I was ready to sign over our bank account, car, and any other thing I owned if the technician would only let me scratch my nose.

Well I don’t know what the results of these scans will be, but I know one thing for sure, I won’t be doing this again, UNLESS I can have a young student female nurse standing by next to the apparatus who will scratch me on demand wherever or whenever I have an itch. Life does have options!!!

Fly Me

I am sure many of you have flown a few times to various places just as we have, but I don’t think I will be doing that again too soon.

We usually fly an airline whose name I won’t mention but requires you to download and print your boarding pass with a computer for general boarding. Here’s the rub!!! There are no assigned seats, and boarding is according to what section your boarding pass states A, B or C. And it works like this ... you must download your boarding pass exactly 24 hours to the second using a confirmation number they give you when you purchase your ticket, so if you want to board early you must do this as soon as possible.

On the day before I was to leave I was sitting in front of my PC with all the proper data required, at the given second I pressed the print button and I received section B 38 and my wife B 39, now off we go to the airport the following day.

When we arrived at the airport at our departure gate, the boarding sign says that general boarding will start with section A1 to section A60 that means that we would be the 98 and 99 person to board according to our boarding pass, so with the plane holding 228 passengers, I thought we had a good shot to get two seats together. Well think again, here they come, the Wheel Chair Brigade, at least 35 wheel chairs that pre board with their fellow travelers, so now that makes at least 70 that will pre boarding before general boarding. But wait -- there is more. It seems that when you purchase your ticket you can pay an extra $10 and board with the wheel chairs and there were about 20 of them so now it is about 188 people boarding before us.

We are now ready to board and I am having doubts about getting two seats together. Now comes the part where I almost lost my cool. The seats are 3 abreast on each side of the plane and many of these passengers traveling alone chose the middle seat, don’t you think these rocket scientist airline "waitresses" could make an announcement to single passengers to please leave two seats abreast for passengers traveling in pairs. The seats we were able to get were the very last seats by the toilet and as you get to the rear of the plane, the body of the plane narrows, now I am not the largest person, not the smallest, but I just about fit in the seat and could just about buckle my safety belt. My wife had to help me. I was so embarrassed.

Now we are underway all the wheel chair people neatly tucked in, now the scrumptious meal was served, a very small bag of peanuts that even a squirrel would find fault with and a small class of soda. I knew that on my return trip I was bringing an Italian hero with me. (Which I did.) I was also thinking of bringing some extra sandwiches and selling them and make a few extra bucks BUT she said NO!!!! Boy! Talk about a no frills flight. This one takes the cake, but they will never serve it.

As we were flying along the coast, I asked my wife to keep an eye on the water below and let me know if she sees anything unusual like the waters parting. She looked at me kind of funny so I said would explain why at the end of the flight.

We have now arrived at our destination and the "waitress" makes an announcement that wheel chair people please remain seated and a wheel chair will be brought to you after all other passengers are off. Now, I don’t mean to be sacreligious, and I know some people definitely need a wheel chair, but although I did not see any parting of the waters below us, we must have flown over "Holy Waters", because out of the 35 wheel chairs that pre boarded, only 5 people remained seated. What a miracle!!! Blind people could see, cripple people could walk, deaf people could hear. I observed one elderly wheel chair guy actually run to his people who were awaiting his arrival. My wife held her hand over my mouth as we passed him. I guess she was reading my mind. I told my wife that the next time we travel, we both will have an assigned seat and they will be side by side in my Ford Explorer.

My Medical Tests

I am sure if you are reading this article you must be living in a retirement community, male or female, and you must all be around the same age as me, therefore you must have undergone many tests ordered by your doctors.

MRIs, CT Scans, Pap tests, blood work, colonoscopies, and a few others that I can’t remember.

Sometimes, the preparation for the test is worse that the test, such as fasting for what seems to me like 3 weeks. In reality 4 hours.

Let’s start out with the blood work. Some of these "vampires" are great. You can hardly tell they inserted the needle. On one occasion at a facility that I won’t mention, the nurse stuck the needle in at a right angle to my arm. Having had this done many times, I knew she would not draw any blood and besides, it was very painful. When I objected, she got nasty. I then told her to take the needle out or I was going to punch her in the mouth. Another nurse heard the commotion and drew blood with no problem.

Another time, I had to fast for two days and go for some type of X-ray, and I was to drink some concoction the nasty little nurse gave me. She handed me what looked like a strawberry milk shake. She then left the room for a minute, so being half starved, I drank it all and it tasted good, when she came back she said, "Stand against the machine by the wall. Where is the drink I gave you?" I told her I drank it and she got all p.o.’d because I was supposed to sip it while she took the test, and now, she had to make another one. I told her in no uncertain terms, "Why the hell didn’t you tell me? I haven’t eaten in two freaking days. And you’re pissed off?"

On another occasion, I had to go for a colonoscopy at a facility that, again, I won’t mention. Again, they starved me for 48 hours. I was like a caged animal. My wife was cowering in the corner scared to death. I was dwindling down to 255 pounds. I swore that after the test, I was going to go to local supermarket and consume the first and second aisles. Comes the day of the test, they gave me one of those freaking gowns that must have been designed by some kind of sadist or pervert just to get his kicks. As they wheeled me into the "procedure room," the nurse and the doctor were having a heated argument, so I figured they must either be married to each other or were dating. The doctor was throwing papers around and grumbling under his breath and the nurse was visibly upset. She then tells me to lie down on the table in a fetal position. I then yelled "WHOA, before I do that I want you two to kiss and make up. If this guy is going to stick something in my body where the sun don’t shine, I want him to have an attitude adjustment. I want him as calm as a lamb. I am squeamish that way." A little giggle from the nurse and an apology from the doctor calmed me down, and the test was completed..

At another time, I had a breathing problem so I had to go for another test. First the room must have been 20 degrees below zero and all I had on was that freaking gown with no back. Then to boot, there were two very young technicians doing this test. They told me to lie down on the table. They gave me a panic button and then put a towel over my face, and in the tube I went. Then I heard them talking about girls, dating etc., so I pressed the panic button and out I came. I asked them do either of you A—holes know why I am here? I HAVE A DAMN BREATHING PROBLEM AND YOU PUT A TOWEL OVER MY FACE, AND SHOVE ME INTO A TUBE !!!! Well, that condition was corrected. I think they were ready to call security. By the way, before I left the hospital I had pneumonia.

I often wondered why it always took forever waiting in the waiting room to take a test so I asked a family friend who is an X-ray technician and he said, "I get paid by the day not how many patients I do. After two patients, I go have a cup of coffee and work on my crossword puzzle." I can’t tell you what I told him, but he does not consider me a family friend any more. Thank God, he lives in another state.

Another thing ... heaven forbid they should help you get up off of the damn table.

I know this sounds like I am a horrible patient, but I really am not. At one time, a head nurse came in with a student nurse and asked me if it would be okay if the student nurse gave me a shot. I said "of course." if I know what’s coming it doesn’t hurt. After all, they have to learn sometime and she did a good job.

I often wonder, these technicians obviously had to have some type of training and education to perform these tests. Would it be possible to maybe throw in a couple of hours of compassion, or common sense?

I have a few other tests scheduled and do not anticipate any improvements in the conditions. I just am wondering how long I can endure this stuff before I grab one of them by the neck and give him or her a test of my own.

May God help us.

My Reunion

I don’t know how many of you have been to some kind of reunion such as class reunion, military reunions, family reunions, and so on, and if you did, did you have the same emotional, rude awakening experience that I had.

My first reunion I attended was for my 50th class reunion, I was so primed up for this; I could hardly wait to see my old classmates and recount the many stories and memories of the past, and perhaps meet some of the girls I dated — Oh, Yeah!!!!!

Finally, the day came, I borrowed my brother’s brand new Cadillac because I didn’t want anyone to see me driving an old Plymouth with the faded paint job (first impression means a lot you know). My wife and I were dressed to the nines, but she always did dress up nice and look good. She had strict orders not to get too personal with my past, especially telling anyone I was a cop, and if anyone asked, I was a the big kahuna in our family’s General Contracting Business, (it was a half truth). I figured that should handle the success story.

Upon entering the hotel, there was a desk in the lobby with a sign that said "———— high school reunion, get your name tags here and register." The women behind the desk was about my age but about twice my size. As I was approaching the desk, she yelled, "Tony, it’s me, Joanne," I was kind of taken back because there was about 75 pounds of her that I did not recognize. She used to have a body like a Greek Goddess. (We had dated a few times while in school.) We hugged and kissed, made some small talk, got our tags and in we went, with my wife whispering not to put on aires and make an ass of myself.

I don’t know if any of you have ever been to a nursing home, but I thought that’s what I walked into. I was expecting to see some of the guys and girls still slim and fit like cheerleaders and football players. Instead, I expected a nurse was going to come around dispensing medication from a tray. I’d never seen so many walkers, canes, and wheelchairs in one place, although some were still mobile they moved very, very slow, like molasses in the winter. I don’t think there was anyone there without some kind of medical equipment.

As we walked around the room, I silently thanked God that we had name tags, otherwise I wouldn’t have known anyone even if I tripped over them. Surprisingly, there were many successful classmates ... some became doctors, a few are lawyers, a lot became teachers, and a few politicians. I started to think where would a general contractor or a cop fit into this equation. Maybe I should have picked a more exotic profession like a pilot or nuclear physicists to wow them, but I don’t think my wife would have gone with it.

As we continued to a walk around the room, I spotted her — Mrs. Sternhart, my English teacher, the one that hated me the most while in school. She made the principal’s office my home room. She was sitting in a wheel chair in a corner of the room all curled up. The only way I can describe her age is that she was still old when New York was a prairie. I tried to avoid the confrontation but she spotted me. So I thought, what the hell, let me say hi. After all, there is no principal’s office here. She was very cordial and she remembered me and all my antics in class, and she elaborated on some of them, (which I can’t discus here.) We talked for a few more minutes and I kissed her on the cheek. As I was leaving she said, "Tony, get down to the principals office." As she gave me a wink, I think my heart skipped a beat. Oh, God!! How I would love to have heard that again!!!

As we searched the room, each of us sought out friends and classmates we associated with the most while in school so as to sit at the same table for dinner, which we did. As I suspected, one loud mouth started to expound on some of the stupid pranks I pulled in school. No way could I shut him up short of gagging him, but I think he saw the look on my face and stopped without even finishing his last sentence. I was glad none of my kids or grandkids were there to hear him.

There were speeches by the once beautiful Home Coming Queen, who now looked like Godzilla; the Class President; Student Council President; the Valedictorian, who also used to be gorgeous but now looks like Lassie; and, get this, the President of the Debate Club. Does it get any better than that? Naturally, plaques were awarded to the organizers of the affair, every one clapping and hugging. It was making me sick. My wife looked at me with that look in her eye and said, "Are you sure you went to this school with these people? Did you accomplish anything in School?" "Yeah," I said, "I had my own homeroom!!!"

As we were having dinner, I whispered to my wife, "As soon as we can, we will ditch this place." I felt like I was in Jurassic park, the definition of OLD is right here!!!

This looked like a Medicare Convention. I was thinking of organizing a wheelchair or a walker race to liven things up, but a jab in the ribs from the wife cancelled that idea.

As we said our good-byes and we were now in the car driving home, (and I made sure many of them saw the car) I was wondering how anyone could let their appearance go so far down hill, with all the education they had and the many many ways to stay fit, it seemed irresponsible, then, after a brief period of silence, it hit me, I began to break out into a cold sweat, my heart rate jumped up, I was almost gasping for breath, I quickly came to my senses, the reality of three hours of this night has finally set in. I WAS ALSO ONE OF "THEM!"

God bless and help us.

Essays by 

Tina Chippas

The Joy of Julia

(July 27, 2011)

After months of the legal turbulence and the media’s feeding frenzy of THE TRIAL, I almost cheered when I clicked the remote to a dated episode of The French Chef. There she was, all six-foot two of her, briskly whisking up eggs, adding heavy cream, interjecting French phrases in her warbly voice and sweeping bits of food off the table onto the floor with aplomb. When I was young, one of my idols wasn’t a movie star or music star or sports’ hero—it was Julia Child. I was delighted. I hadn’t seen Julia on TV for decades. She lobbed a sizable lump of butter into a hot pan, watched as it melted and sizzled before pouring in the egg mixture. Wiping her hands on her apron, Julia looked squarely into the camera. "Fat gives things flavor," she declared. "If you’re afraid of butter, use cream!" She exhorted her viewers to have courage, use simple ingredients and be creative in the kitchen. "The only real stumbling block is fear of failure. In cooking, you’ve got to have a ‘What-the-hell attitude,’ " she trilled. Cooking chores completed, Julia sat down, heartily helped herself to her finished dishes and, mouth full of food, described the flavors and textures. Julia being Julia.

The dishes were uncomplicated, visually enticing and, undoubtedly, delicious. There were no microwaves, no Teflon frying pans, no food processors in her kitchen. Julia did it all the old-fashioned way. She demystified French cuisine reducing it to the simplest of procedures and terms. Quiches, boeuf bourguignon, croque en bouche, souffles, nothing was impossible because Julia said it wasn’t (as my dog-eared copy of Julia’s Mastering the Art of French Cooking attests). I was sorry when the program was over. I hadn’t enjoyed any cooking program as much as this one in a very long time. I compared Julia’s expertise, her relaxed, comical manner and program content to current high cuisine programming. Those are downright stressful: chefs, under impossible time constraints, combine ingredients found mostly in specialty markets into "concoctions." It’s all about competitions and ratings, not the joy and rewards of fine home cooking.

I looked up some interesting facts about Julia Child: from a privileged family, she attended elite private schools, was a good athlete with a reputation for being adventurous and a prankster. She entered the job market, working in the advertising department of the prestigious W. J. Sloane but not for very long. She was fired for "gross insubordination." (Can’t you just see Julia digging her heels in, letting chips fall where they may?) At the outset of WWII, she was turned down for the WACs because of her height and volunteered for the OSS, the precursor to the CIA. Julia played a key role in the communication of top-secret documents for the government for which she received meritorious recognition of her service.

Her marriage to Paul Child took her to France where her penchant for French cooking led her to the world-famous Cordon Bleu cooking school. Under renowned chefs, she studied and collaborated with two other chefs to open L’Ecole des Trois Gourmandes (The School of Three Hearty Eaters), offering five-dollar lessons right in her own apartment on the Left Bank. The three women authored Mastering the Art of French Cooking and, during a United States promotional tour, Julia demonstrated how to make an omelette on TV. The producers were taken with her exuberance, physical presence and culinary instructional skills. The French Chef debuted in 1963. It had a ten-year run with reruns into 1989. She and the show were wildly successful. And her on-camera faux pas only endeared her more to her viewers.

Though she continued to break gastronomic rules and television protocol, the irreverent, irascible Julia made the cover of Time with the title of, "Our Lady of the Ladle." She dominated the culinary scene for more than forty years, writing, producing, garnering honors domestically and abroad.

Foiling a lifetime of eating fat-rich foods, red meat and drinking gin, Julia passed away in her sleep at 91. Her last meal was French onion soup—an ending she would probably have laughed at and approved.

Another Furry Tale

Lukie

(June 1, 2011)

Some days I prefer canine companionship to that of humans. The complexity of human associations just doesn’t exist in the canine world. Joys are simple, wants are basic, responses are sincere. Yup, give me a dog for a friend, any day.

My poodle, Chelsea, and granddog, Miniature Pinscher Lukie, love to travel. They’re perfect companions: no backseat driving; no discussions on when and where to stop. They just do as bidden. At least Chelsea does. Luke is quite another animal. Daughter has not stressed listening skills or social graces as his horrific eating manners will attest. Chelsea is still contemplating her dish, daintily sniffing offerings while Lukie chomps his kibble with gusto, licks his dish clean and eyes Chelsea’s full plate for handouts. He is smart enough to do so from a good five feet away, fully aware of her wrath regarding property infringement.

I decided it was a good day for a trip to Peanut Island. The Sailfish Marina Taxi waited for us as I scooped up the dogs and loaded them on board. Chelsea obediently dropped to a sphinx-like position next to me. Lukie refused to sit and leaned against the guardrail. I looped my fingers through the dog’s halters and we were off in a spray of cool water. A speedboat pulled up alongside our boat. "HEY, POOCH," a man clicking away with camera shouted, "OVER HERE." "Who’s he?" Lukie asked Chelsea. "You TWIT—he’s paparazzi," she hissed back and turned to me. "If you hadn’t sent that essay to the Condo News, this wouldn’t be happening. We never have any privacy any more." She tossed her fluffy red hair and stared straight ahead, ignoring the press. Lukie hooked his front paws over the side of the boat, big dark eyes flashing, pink tongue a pleasant contrast to his glistening white teeth, clearly enjoying his newly found fame. "This is so cool," he murmured. Lukie has a tendency to mumble, a habit that annoys Chelsea whose speech is soft but distinct.

We disembarked and headed for the gazebo. Lukie stopped short, hackles rising, as he spied what looked like "Otto," the German shepherd from our dog park caper. If it wasn’t Otto, it was a first cousin. Once again, Otto wasn’t leashed. His head, almost as big as Lukie’s entire body, turned toward us. I heard a hoarse growl and then I saw his lips quivering. Remembering my bruises from my last encounter with Otto’s head, I herded the dogs away, but Lukie wasn’t having any of it. He lunged for Otto, dragging me with him. Here we go, again, I groaned, looking frantically for Otto’s owner. Then, Chelsea took charge. She told Otto off, using every French swear word in her vocabulary. He cocked his head and looked at her, puzzled. A piece of red fluff, defying him? Lukie took advantage of his adversary’s hesitation and forged ahead, grimacing, yapping, exhibiting some fancy footwork as he danced in a semicircle, Grandma in tow. The monster dog lowered his head and slowly headed toward us. "Henry, DOWN!" From a nearby yacht, a familiar-looking man in a brightly flowered shirt put down his guitar and shouted at the shepherd. He walked up to us. "Henry’s a bully." "HENRY?" Lukie snickered. "With a name like that he’d have to be a bully."

The man looked at my pale face and held his hand out "I’m so sorry. I’m Jimmy. Let me make up for Henry’s bad manners with lunch on board?" Where had I seen Jimmy before? And then it hit me: the paparazzi, the guitar—OMG! Mr. Margaritaville, himself. "Love to," I responded. No one will believe this, I thought as I handed the dogs up to Mr. Margaritaville at the yacht. For once, Lukie’s madcap antics paid off. The little scamp smiled at me. "Isn’t this fun, Gram?" he murmured.

Say "Amen"

(May 18, 2011)

A tumultuous announcement by President Obama brought relief that a monster had been slain. We felt gratitude to the heroes who executed the mission and the monster. We felt admiration for our president who had the intelligence, courage and tenacity to make it all happen. Yes, we were finally satisfied Bin Laden was dead, but not for long.

By Tuesday, the rumbling had begun: scurrilous questions asked by biased media people and politicians who should know better. Was Bin Laden buried properly according to his religion? Why, when he masterminded the inhumane deaths of 3,000 innocent Americans, would that question even surface. Absurd questions from ambitious sources: is this a ploy to avert further investigation into the President’s citizenship? Which president should take credit for capture: Ex-President Bush, who declared, at least twice, that he wasn’t interested in capturing Bin Laden, or President Obama, who made it a priority upon assuming the office of President? Was information obtained from water-boarding responsible for locating Bin Laden? Soon followed by attempts to credit the torture committed during the Bush administration as a valuable method of obtaining information. The demand for actual photographs of the deceased began as well, without consideration of how that might inflame Bin Laden’s supporters.

There was a rush to the microphones to claim credit for Bin Laden’s demise. Have particular politicians and certain talk show hosts never heard of "give credit where credit is due"? Their self-aggrandizement is a vain, ego-based behavior that becomes increasingly obnoxious in the face of truth. Stirring up the flames of doubt and hate surely cannot add to their credentials, or can it? It seems this population will not accept the fact that something good was accomplished by those they dislike so intensely. Real facts are turned aside in order to perpetuate their false claims and innuendos that they cling to against all reason.

And then there are the conspiracy theorists. Is Bin Laden REALLY dead? It’s not that the conspiracy theorists believe that Bin Laden could possibly be alive. It’s about casting doubt on the current administration all the while giving credit to the previous one. C’mon, folks. It can’t be both. Don’t these people realize or care how absurd they sound?

And so, the political nonsense continues to defame and detract from the accomplishment of this incredible military operation and from the many devoted intelligence and military personnel who gathered and pieced together details that led to Bin Laden. When do the detractors acknowledge the success of this operation and begin to work in a bi-partisan manner?

Will be there be other monsters? Without a doubt. But for now, let’s just say, "AMEN!" to the completion of this mission and stop the partisan nonsense. Let’s concentrate on making this nation great again, not tearing it down.

Amen.

Pascha Means Passover 

(April 20, 2011)

This week, Jews will observe Passover as a symbol of freedom over oppression. At Passover, the events that surround the Jews’ exodus from Egypt are marked and recreated. In remembering the plight and redemption of the Jews, Passover celebrates freedom for all.

This week, also, after Passover, Christians will celebrate Easter which proclaims the triumph of life over death — Christ’s resurrection symbolizes eternal life to all who believe in him.

An Eastern Orthodox Christian, my Easter always comes after Passover. Even as a young child, I felt there was a connection between Easter and Passover. I knew that the first Easter happened at Passover. I found the Passover-Paschal connection intriguing. I learned of other connections between the two holidays or religions. The most significant correlation between Passover and Easter is that Jesus was crucified on Passover. When Jesus ate the last supper with His disciples, religious scholars have stated they were eating the Passover meal. In fact, they conclude, Jesus’ last supper was a Passover Seder because as a Jew, Jesus was obligated to participate in a seder and many Jews went to Jerusalem for that purpose.

Nina Amir, an acclaimed journalist, motivational speaker and Kabbalistic-conscious creation coach, offers the following as further evidence of the last supper as a seder: "Many Christian churches have instituted a seder before Easter Sunday as part of their Easter celebrations. This observance is called Maundy Thursday, Holy Thursday or Great Thursday. Those Christians who believe Passover was the last supper cite Luke 22:15, in which Jesus says, ‘With fervent desire I have desired to eat this Passover with you before I suffer.’ Mark 14:12 echoes this with the comment, ‘And on the first day of the Unleavened Bread, when the Passover [lamb] was being sacrificed, his disciples said to him [Jesus], ‘Where do you want us to go and prepare for you to eat the Passover?’"

Ms. Amir, further states: "Second, just as Jesus’ crucifixion and resurrection led to the start of Christianity, the Israelites’ liberation from Egypt led to the beginning of Judaism. It wasn’t until the Jews had crossed the Red Sea that they became a nation unto themselves. This freedom and nationhood led them to enter into the covenant with God at Mt. Sinai, which marked the beginning of Judaism. Prior to Jesus’ crucifixion and resurrection, he was a Jew and his followers were Jews. Upon his death, his teachings became the basis for Christianity. His resurrection and ascension, as well as the miracles he performed during his lifetime, caused him to be named posthumously as the ‘Christ.’ Thus, Christianity was born.
"Third, both Easter and Passover revolve around the idea of rebirth. Jesus is resurrected, or born again, and the slaves are reborn into freedom. Both holidays draw in the idea of birth or rebirth with Easter eggs and the hard-boiled eggs served on Passover." And to further correlate, Easter is also sometimes referred to as Pascha, a word that appears in both Latin and Greek but comes from the Hebrew Pesah, or Passover.

Different faiths? Yes, but Easter and Passover share a common origin, shared traditions and common themes as well, like courage, faith, freedom and love — qualities and ideals much needed in our world today no matter the religion.

Happy Passover and Happy Easter!

"It's Like Hugging a Rainbow"

I can remember when turning on the TV was sure to bring pleasurable moments of entertainment and the news wasn’t all bad. In those early days of television, the family would gather around the set to watch Milton Berle’s ridiculous capers, Steve Allen’s brilliant sketches, and Walter Cronkite’s measured, thoughtful reporting. His tag line of, "And that’s the way it is," gave his viewers a reassurance of factual authority. That was great viewing and a long time ago, but last week, I, again, felt the thrill of good television programming.

Yes, COMING HOME is another reality show but this one pays tribute to those who silently serve their country. I wasn’t prepared to be so touched or shed tears watching currently active members of all five branches of military return to their loved ones in surprise reunions. Not a new theme, certainly, but the show uncovers the difficulties of military family life, the sacrifices made not just by those who serve our country but their families as well. So evident is the anxiety of knowing their loved ones are in the path of danger and death in what seems like endless conflicts; conflicts with no apparent resolutions, what Norman Solomon, author of War Made Easy, terms as "perpetual war."

Tragically, it is the children who are most affected. The constant uncertainty and biting absence of a loved one in military conflict are more than any child should have to bear. I defy anyone seeing the videos of the children in COMING HOME not to see their courage and bravery in living without their parents — parents in combat — not knowing if they will see them again. The difficulty of being a child in a military family is clearly obvious and poignant.

The program I watched featured a bright and articulate girl of twelve, Holly Hughes, a budding violinist. With a maturity that belies her young years, during an interview she was matter-of-fact about her father’s deployment. And then the heart-stopping moment with her father’s surprise appearance after her violin solo at a concert: the incredulity on her face, her joyous reaction, a demonstration of the extent of this child’s sacrifice of her father to the cause of protecting our country. She was asked what it was like having her father home again. Through her tears, her face lit up. "It’s like hugging a rainbow," she said, happily.

Here, in paradise, wars are far away. Another perfect day: the ocean is blue; the sun is shining. And then we turn on the TV and witness rampant devastation in a troubled world. We can turn off the set and continue with our lives, block off the unpleasantness, the misery. But our armed forces and their families live it, in real time. COMING HOME gives us a glimpse, a tiny glimpse, of what our military and their families endure. Kudos to Lifetime for heartwarming, enlightening, family programming.

The Spirit of St. Patrick

Erin Go Bragh! The wearing of the green, Irish tenors singing Oh, Danny Boy, corned beef and cabbage, green beer, shamrocks and yes, leprechauns too — St. Patrick’s Day is coming! Seems like when the world is too much with us, we get this one day to be lighthearted and carefree, enjoy the merriment of Celtic music, camaraderie and toasts, or watch in awe at the precision and spirit of the Riverdancers.

And what of the saint responsible for this day? We’ve heard the myth about St. Patrick driving the snakes out of Ireland. But it’s just that — a myth — since post-glacial Ireland doesn’t have and never has had snakes! It’s thought that the snakes symbolize the Druids, those who worshipped the forces of nature. In many old pagan religions, serpent symbols were common and often worshipped. As a missionary, St. Patrick confronted the Druids, abolished their pagan rites and later converted them to Christianity.

Historians place St. Patrick’s birth in the late 4th century, in Kilpatrick, Scotland. Two authentic letters written by him provide most of the universally accepted facts of his life. About the age of 16, he was captured by Irish marauders, sold to an Irish chieftain and for six years tended flocks in Ireland. There he learned about the Irish, their Celtic language and religion. The years of his captivity were hard and he turned to God for strength. In his letters, he relates how, in his sleep, he heard a voice telling him: "You do well to fast: soon you will depart for your home country," Later, he again heard the voice telling him to leave his master and get on a ship: "And it was not close by, but, as it happened, two hundred miles away, where I had never been nor knew any person. And shortly thereafter, I turned about and fled from the man with whom I had been for six years, and I came, by the power of God who directed my route to advantage (and I was afraid of nothing), until I reached that ship." Now a young man, Patrick returned to his family and home in Britain.

From his experiences in Ireland, St. Patrick was driven to convert the Irish to Christianity. He studied in monasteries and returned to Ireland as a missionary. Legend has it that he baptized more than 120,000 people and founded over 300 churches. The shamrock, a symbol of St. Patrick’s Day and Ireland, is another story that recognizes the saint’s use of the clover to explain the Christian concept of the Trinity – the three leaves representing the Father, Son and Holy Spirit, with the stem representing the Godhead.

St. Patrick died on March 17th, in the year now thought to be 493. This devout, humble man made such an impact on the Christian world that his life and achievements are celebrated some 1500 years later, an indelible legacy. Something to reflect upon during the festivities of his nameday.

Perfection

She was perfection. Tall and lithe, she entered the staged area with a light, graceful stride, a nonchalance worthy of any supermodel. On-lookers, impressed by her elegance, described her as an "inspirational diva." Despite spotlights, cameras and noisy crowd, her response was quiet and dignified. Little was known about her before this show except that she slept on a fluffy bed, has a family tree dating back to the 16th century and prefers living in a rural setting.

She loved the attention her presence drew and focused her attention on the silver-haired judge approaching her. She never flinched as he looked into her dark eyes, ran his hands down her sleek body and checked her bite. Bite? Yes, bite. This is "Hickory" or Grand Champion Foxcliffe Hickory Wind, the deerhound who won Westminster Dog Show’s Best In Show—a prestigious accomplishment in dogdom. Very careful breeding, training and care were responsible for winning a premier contest where all competing dogs are champions and ideal standards for their breeds. The judge, Dr. Paolo Dondino, one of the world’s most accomplished purebred dog fanciers, described Hickory as "perfect" in all ways.

That set me to thinking about "perfection" and any correlation between the human species and the animal world. Since humankind began, we’ve been searching for perfection, tracing it through centuries in art forms, government, physical attributes and attainments.

Today’s economy is motivated and profits by consumers’ demand for services/products specifically designed to promote and then cater to the desire for perfection: surgical reconstruction of physical features, cosmetics, clothing, jewelry, cars, jobs, relationships, etc. Breeders determine standards for perfection in the animal world but who determines perfection for humans? Scarily, goals for perfection are not usually ones we determine and set for ourselves but are crafted by advertising and societal standards for keeping up with and looking like what used to be the Joneses but is now the Kardashians. (At least the Joneses were real people we knew!) Never mind that these images are, basically, manipulated illusions for those who would follow. We’ve seen what happens when the pursuit of perfection becomes an obsession; sadly, there are those who succumb to it as their Master and perish. Who hasn’t heard or read about starving for the perfect body, drug taking to reach the perfect state of mind, frenziedly working for the ideal lifestyle, or the horrific plan for construction of a genetically perfect Aryan race. I’m thinking that the human attainment of and working for "perfection" should be a cautionary one. Consider the phrase "striving for perfection." It indicates its use as a tool in working toward proficiency and even to excel, as if perfection is, by definition, not attainable.

Seems as if "perfection" is more easily achieved in the pedigreed world where it’s a matter of considering the best factors from each animal for the ideal match. One breeder compares the ideal animal specimen to the most perfect diamond with the right color, weight and cut to the right shape. Add nurturing and training to that and the result is a flawless specimen — like Hickory.

Hickory took that runway with serene confidence and grace. She had all the components of perfection and she knew it. She reminded me of someone, but who? And then it came to mind: Suzy Parker — the ’50s actress/model who took the perfection of her beauty and elegance with the same admirable casualness — a correlation I never expected to make.

'Tis the Season

An ear-piercing wail shattered the peace around Santa’s chalet at the Garden’s Mall. "WA-A-A-A! I wanna see Santa," a child cried and a woman’s agitated voice replied, "We don’t have time for Santa. I have too much shopping to do." I turned to see a four or five-year-old girl looking over her shoulder at Santa as she was hauled away by a package-laden parent with a cell phone pressed to her ear. I looked at the parents waiting in line with their children for a keepsake photo with Santa. Was I imagining this? Very few of the parents were engaged with their children in sharing this Santa visit and most of the adults walking about the mall with children were talking on cell phones and ignoring their attached child-appendages. What’s happened to us, I wonder, that the holiday season has become so based on object gathering for an all-too-commercial holiday instead of enjoyment of all-too-fleeting childhood moments?

We prepare for the holiday season. Some of us camp out, for hours or days, waiting for stores to open. Then we dash to secure that most popular game/toy/doll of the season before it’s snatched up by another shopper. We take those prizes home, wrap them and on the appropriate day, after the frenzy of gift opening is over, we eat a holiday dinner and then watch sports on TV for the rest of that day while the kids play with their toys. The holiday is basically over.

I’m not one to dwell on "the good ol’ days." I know most of what makes life comfortable today is way better than what we had years ago. But do you remember the simple holiday customs families enjoyed? Remember saving money in a Christmas Club Account during the year and buying those special gifts for loved ones or the fun of hanging cherished ornaments and tinsel, strand by strand, on the tree to create the "best-tree-we-ever-had" and the final touch of perching a favorite tree-topper ornament? How about the excitement of leaving cookies and milk for Santa and apples for the reindeer under the tree and discovering them gone the next morning? Or taking turns opening gifts, one at a time, and oh-h-ing and ah-h-ing over each gift? How special it was gathering around a table and sharing the warmth of belonging, laughter and home cooking.

Children love and remember those times. I do hope they get to experience that holiday magic today. It’s what memories are made of.

Change

I watched the man atop the cherry picker remove the letters from the "Home Goods" sign in the North Palm Beach Oakbrook Square Shopping Center last week and felt a sense of loss. Yet another business closing and moving. One more change in an unrelentingly changing world. I took a cell phone photo of the dismantling and sent it to Daughter. She texted me back, "Sad." So I wasn’t the only one. I missed the stability of the world I grew up in, when tomorrow would be the same as today.

An unexpected wave of nostalgia swept me back to Abraham and Strauss, "Brooklyn’s Greatest Retail Store," on Fulton Street, to the grand, elliptically-shaped, high-ceilinged central atrium and its two banks of elevators, bordered by grey and black marble pillars and walls. Housed in Lalique-styled glass boxes, twenty-four light indicators, flanked each ornate, Deco-designed, nickel, brass and bronze elevator. Crowns of Deco-cut mirrors above the elevators sparkled with reflected light from the chandeliers. A patterned, marble floor completed the design of elegance. The atrium was, indeed, a work of art.

Inside each elevator was a uniformed and gloved operator, working the gate, turning the wheel, adjusting the elevator to the proper level, announcing each floor in modulated tones: "Third floor: ladies’ lingerie, hats, shoes — stand back, please, until the doors have opened. Third floor."

But best of all, was the tall, distinguished, elevator supervisor who signaled the operators when to close their doors, with only his clicker. Dressed in a soft-colored, major-domo type uniform, complete with military-type hat and gloves, he moved smoothly from one elevator to the next, overseeing loading of its passengers. His demeanor was proprietary and professional as he supervised his operators. He conveyed a sense of tradition and dependability. I knew every time I went to A & S, that same man would be there, in control, insuring shoppers’ safety and comfort. And he was — for years. That was stability.

There was a comfortable constancy about growing up in the ‘40s and ‘50s.Technology hadn’t reared its intrusive head yet. People didn’t talk to invisible entities as they walked, shopped, or dined; thumbs weren’t tapping out messages — it was decades before the debut of hand-held electronic devices. Businesses ran successfully for years; store owners knew their clientele by name; most people lived within their means; the "Made in America" logo was proudly evident on merchandise.

There was a civility and gentility to those years, not obvious and certainly less practiced today. Permanence and dependability are no longer givens in this competitive world. For those of us who experienced that time and way of living, acceptance of today’s dispassionate business practices comes slowly. But, ultimately, we concede, for if we are not moving forward, we aren’t just standing still, we are moving backwards. While we may cling to our memories of grander places and more genteel times, we accept that progress is impossible without change. To quote JFK, "Change is the law of life. And those who look only to the past or present are certain to miss the future."

Still, as I stood in hot sun watching the last letters of the Home Goods’ sign being lowered, in a little corner of my mind and, yes, in my heart, too, I’m still in Abraham and Straus, captivated by the style and tradition of the elevator atrium.

The Condoggers

You’ve seen them. They are legion. And I am one of them. We are The Condoggers. We live in condos; we have dogs. Hence, Condoggers.

We’re a friendly lot, stopping to pet each other’s dogs, discuss the hardly-changing Florida temperatures, usually keeping to the lighter topics of life. We watch our dogs interact, who, for the most part, reflect their owners’ personalities. They do, you know. Dogs mirror our personalities and I often wonder if we don’t choose our dogs not just because we like the way they look, but, also, because we see something of ourselves in them! Haven’t we all seen an old dog and its aged owner who, like an old married couple, resemble each other?

For the most part, I enjoy walking my Princess Poodle, Chelsea, and my granddog, the rascally Miniature Pinscher, Lukie, subject of "A Furry Tale" Condo News essay. Chelsea is a prim and proper walker, her delicate neck sensitive to the slightest directional tug on her leash. Lukie has an uncompromising neck of steel. To ensure I don’t lose him, I fashion a leash-noose around my wrist that promises, one day, to sever hand from arm as he lunges after hapless lizards that scurry into grasses on his approach. Daughter never listened when I extolled the virtues of dog training when he was a puppy. He was hers to cuddle and spoil and, like any indulged child, he assumes he’s king of the house and reigns supreme outdoors.

Most times, Lukie listens to Grandma, but where food and prey are involved, he’s stone deaf. No amount of cajoling or corrective leash control makes a difference. His stubby, muscular, Doberman-like body and coloring is alien in Condog World. Condog people with stuffed-toy type dogs, worriedly consider Lukie’s approach. He does have a formidable trait — a ridge of fur stretching from neck to tail that springs upright at the sight of another dog. His chest puffs out as he assumes a defiant "C’mon, I Dare You" stance with a deceptive smile featuring a formidable, albeit small, set of glistening teeth. Truth be known, he’s a big baby where confrontation is concerned. And Chelsea has his number. She’s the Alpha Dog and he takes wide berth around her. If he dares to violate her "Don’t-Come-Near-Me Zone," Chelsea gives one sharp bark, and turns on her heels. Sometimes I think I hear her murmur "TWIT" under her breath, although she’s been admonished to be patient with him. After all, in dog years, she’s 84 and he’s only a rakish 28!

Condoggers are, for the most part, responsible dog owners who train their dogs to respond civilly to other dogs and humans. They pick up after their pets and keep them in good condition, feeding, exercising them, and the results of that nurturing are lovable and livable pets.

Teddy

Tiffany

My condo block has some really sweet condogs: the handsome, blond and debonair Teddy — a Whoodle (Wheaten Terrier and Poodle mix), and a lovely, snow-white Maltese, Tiffany, to name just two, are delightful — the kind of dogs you wish were human so you could pal around with them. They have Chelsea’s tail-wag approval though Lukie is still in the "Bet-I-Can-Race-Ya-To-The-Corner" competitive stage. I’ve no doubt, in time, they will win him over to be as sociable as they are.

When I first contemplated moving to Florida, Daughter, already a Floridian, would scout out condos for me, encouraging the move with, " . . . and there are lots of people who walk their dogs on that block," assuming they were genial people and dogs whom Chelsea and I would enjoy meeting. And she was right! We do.

So This is Paradise

"Would you like me to take your cart to your car?" the silver-haired bagger smiled at me. "Excuse me?" I must have heard wrong. "I can take your cart to your car," he repeated. "Are you new here, ma’am?" he asked. Did I look alien to Florida? "We take your cart to the car and help you unload it," he explained. Huh! This was paradise. In New Jersey, no one ever took my cart to my car and I usually bagged my own groceries as well. I was already taken aback when I asked for the location of an item and a supermarket employee actually walked me over to the shelf and handed it to me. Back home, I got a general thumb wave toward a food shelf. Seemed as if living in Florida might just be a good thing.

I surely didn’t have that feeling the first week I moved down to the land of Pump-Your-Own-Gas from the state of Bada-Bing, Bada-Boom. It’s illegal to pump your own gas in New Jersey and I hadn’t the least idea how to use my credit card on a gas pump much less manipulate the gas nozzle to actually send gasoline into the tank.

It was a week of discovery all right. I learned that there are no jug handles on local roads, only u-turns; that anyone with a Jersey license plate had better replace it quickly with a Florida plate, just to fit in and not be the recipient of rude hand gestures from drivers in red pickup trucks. I learned to shop and take the dogs out early or later in the day or we’d melt faster than an ice cube on a sidewalk and that the best parking spots are not those closest to the stores but the ones under shade. The initial shock of the "Beware of Alligators" signs at Juno’s Pelican Park Lake walking path has worn off. I’ve assured myself that Palmetto bugs are like New York City roaches only with overactive pituitary glands. (Point of information: borax and geckos keep palmettos away!) And I am, smugly, fully stocked with "hurricane water" and canned foods, thank you very much.

My goodness, but I became a Floridian quickly. After decades of wearing high heels and suits to work, I donned the "South Florida Uniform" — tank top, shorts and sandals. Wheee — how liberating! All the things that northerners love about summer I now have all year long: turquoise ocean, glorious sunsets, making reservations instead of dinner and a laid-back life-style. How great is that! Tanned men wearing Hawaiian shirts, tanned blond women with finely chiseled features, due to either great genetics or skilled surgeons, boats traversing the Intracoastal, miles of colorful, landscaped roadways, the fittingly named Garden Mall—it’s all eye candy to this Jerseyan.

Certainly, New Jersey has positive attributes: mountains, beaches, good schools, The Boss, Greek diners, Bon Jovi, a short ride to entertainment and Manhattan, but not the notoriety of "The Sopranos." Somehow, that program and "Housewives of New Jersey," "Jersey Couture" and "Jersey Shore," have changed the perception and complexion of an energetic state with communities of hard-working families who espouse sound core values and reflect them in their behavior and accomplishments. What has evolved is a tv-derived stereotype of loud, crass people who decimate the English language with speech worse than any Leo Gorcey used in the East Side Kids’ movies.

Took me a while to make the move to paradise, but I’m glad I did, hurricanes or not. Do I miss my northern roots — sometimes — but cold, snow, ice, grey rain, raging taxes?

"Fuggedaboudit!"

"Dear Dad ... I miss you"

9/11 Memorial Garden, 

Middletown, N.J.

Photo by Tina Chippas

Under the dappled shade of tall trees, in Middletown, New Jersey, is a 9/11 Memorial Garden that leaves your heart aching, long after the tears have dried.

On 9/11, Middletown, New Jersey, suffered "the largest concentrated death toll" of any place in America — thirty-seven men and women perished on that day. If you lived in Middletown, an hour’s ride from Manhattan, you would have seen the huge plume of smoke and smelled the acrid fumes from the World Trade Center’s holocaust and you probably know someone who lost a relative or friend in the horror of that site.

Middletown 9/11 Memorial Garden is a place of remembrance for those who have no resting place, where their families may find comfort in the memory of their lost loved ones. A winding walkway leads into the shaded park and you are instantly aware of the stillness, a sense of reverence usually found in religious sanctuaries. It’s quite evident that this is a special place.

Large tombstones, engraved with the actual likeness of each lost resident, follow the pathway. Inscribed on the headstones are literary quotations, biblical passages or last messages from loved ones. I read each headstone, seeing some names for the first time and recognizing others as friends lost in the tragedy. One, I knew as a young father of a two-year-old and an infant. His widow was told he was on the way down the staircase and would have been saved but he didn’t see his mother-in-law who worked on the floor above him and turned back to find her. They both perished. She lost her husband and her mother on that day. And that is but one account of the thirty-seven who were lost.

At each mock gravesite, there were written messages and tokens of love. At one, a letter and baseball were tucked inside a boy’s baseball cap. The letter read, "Dear Dad, I pitched a good game and we won. I miss you Dad." On another, a childish drawing of a colorful birthday cake with too many candles to count and at the bottom, "Happy Birthday, Mommy. We blew out the candles for you." Teddy bears, dolls, baby shoes, little angels, family photographs — mementos from loved ones who still grieve and hurt. Lives, dreams, families were shattered on that fateful day, and though the pieces may have come together, those lives are forever changed.

At the memorial site, I spoke with a relative who survived the attack. She related when she followed the flow of people walking down the stairs to safety, firemen, with all their gear, were on their way up. She said, "I can’t forget their eyes ... they all seemed to be young and blue-eyed and, as they climbed, they gave encouragement to those leaving, telling us to be calm and help each other. I had the feeling they knew they weren’t going to make it out. There was something in each and every face that told me that. I still dream about their eyes."

A man, about fifty, was walking and reading the headstones. He wore a shirt with the tiny logo, "NYPD. " He said he’d lost almost all his buddies from the effects of smoke inhalation. He looked at his wife a short distance away and lowered his voice. "I don’t know how much longer I have, but I needed to come here to pay my respects." When I asked him how he coped with his memories, he smiled. "I always say, don’t look back. We showed the world what Americans can be — how strangers pulled together to save people they didn’t know. Didn’t matter what color or religion they were. That’s our strength as Americans."

I left Memorial Park filled with sadness for the lives lost, for the families left behind and with a sense of patriotic pride that my town had been through the worst and shown its best.

V-J Day

September 2nd

I can never forget the magnificent pealing of the church bells as they echoed through the neighborhood — Brooklyn was a borough of churches and in Bedford-Stuyvesant, we had one on each corner of our block and they were all tolling victory. I pressed my forehead against the window pane, flattening the little flag hanging there, the one with one gold and two blue stars. I watched as neighbors leaned precariously from their windows, banging wooden spoons on pots and ringing dinner bells, school bells or blowing on horns and whistles.

It was September 2, 1945, V-J Day, a day which should have been a happy one but for my family, it was filled with a numbness, a feeling that this day came too late for us. Only five months ago, I had run home from school for lunch. I pressed the button in the marbled vestibule and waited impatiently for the answering buzz. It never came. A neighbor, on his way out, opened the door. He avoided my thanks by ducking out quickly. A knot of neighbors were congregated on the second landing — truly an unusual sight — apartment dwellers nodded and smiled, but rarely spoke to each other.

I was stopped by one of them. "Is it true that your brother was killed?" "No, only wounded; he’ll be home soon," I responded, thinking of my second oldest brother recently wounded in Germany. "She doesn’t know," I heard one of them whisper. "She thinks you’re talking about the middle one."

I took the next flight, two steps at a time, premonition making my heard thump anxiously. "Please, God," I prayed silently, "let everything be all right." I knocked on the stained-glass door of our apartment; my aunt from New Jersey opened the door. Why was she here? It wasn’t a holiday. A second look at her swollen eyes heightened my fears: a terror seized me and I felt rooted to the spot.

Somehow, I entered and was drawn to the unnatural silence in the living room. My mother’s closest friend, Mrs. C., stood uncertainly in the middle of the room, a wadded handkerchief pressed to her nose.

Finally, my eyes rested on what I knew was my mother, but one I didn’t recognize as the same vivacious, impeccably groomed, pretty woman that she was. Collapsed on the overstuffed chair, she was still in her housedress at twelve noon. Head laid back, hair awry, face swollen and drained of all color, she lay motionless — dry sobs coming from somewhere deep within her. My brother John’s photo lay on her lap, his handsome, young face smiled up at her. On the table, next to the chair, was a shot glass filled with brandy and the crumbled telegram.

"What’s wrong?" a voice not at all like mine whispered. I hoped I was in the midst of a nightmare, that this wasn’t really happening. My father gently drew me into the dining room. "John has died," he said quietly. "No!" I cried. I turned and flung my arms around him. He smoothed my hair — the braids he loved. "She’ll be all right," he said, looking at my mother. "She’ll be all right."

So that was five months ago and now it was all over. Now, Peter and James would be coming home like all the other sons and brothers of our cousins and friends. Things would change for sure. My brothers would go into the family business; marriages and babies would brighten our lives. But that was in the future — I didn’t know, at nine years old, that life could be better or worse than it is on any one day that we are feeling joy or sorrow.

I turned away from the window in search of my mother, a newly acquired, anxious habit.

"Let’s go to Mrs. C.’s," she said, avoiding my troubled eyes. She still didn’t look like herself. We walked the short block to the trolley. It was a sunny day, still warm enough for summer, but with the crispness of fall in the air. We walked without talking, aware of the joy around us but not a part of it. Trolleys clanged, cars honked, total strangers embraced, and the bells continued to peal. We boarded an open-sided Nostrand Avenue trolley and sat quietly, looking straight ahead. Other passengers boarded, smiles on their faces, and looked at us expecting similar reactions. Seeing my mother’s black, mourning clothes, their gazes slid uncomfortably away, unwilling to allow their joy to be diminished by another’s pain.

We got off the trolley and walked up St. John’s Place. Scents and aromas floated out store doorways: freshly roasted coffee beans, Italian spices. We didn’t comment on how good they smelled, as we usually did. We climbed the steep flight to Mrs. C.’s apartment. She opened the door — although her son would be coming home, she felt the pain in her friend’s heart. She opened wide her arms and welcomed us in.

The church bells toll slowly

A joyous day, a grey day,

A day of hope and sorrow.

Dong, dong

A life over,

Yet hardly begun.

A mother’s soul rent in two.

A first-born, so young, so pure

Deep in foreign soil.

Dong, dong

One gold star and two of blue.

So much to give a country

That counts its dead by

Tens of thousands.

Dong, dong

Comforting arms—

Another mother’s love

Salves the wound.

The pain passes.

A scar remains.

Though now silent,

The bells still peal in the child’s memories.

Reality — Really?

I admit it — I’m a Reality Show Junkie. I am fascinated by the competition to excel and survive contrived situations, by the excesses/deficiencies of the real-life cast members and I wonder why. It’s not as if I’m removed from world affairs — I worry about the oil spill and the disastrous effects of a company’s negligence on our environment and wildlife. I’m concerned about the economic crisis in our country and how our children and grandchildren, our country, will survive it. I don’t live vicariously through TV land’s scenes and schemes. I do have other interesting and worthwhile pursuits in life and I live in a condominium building! Why then, do some of these "reality" shows pique my curiosity enough for more than one minute of viewing?

I was mulling this over when a memory from the ’70s surfaced — that of a diminutive, eighty-nine-year-old woman hurrying though N.Y.C.’s Port Authority Terminal. I thought I saw Edna on the bus as we plowed our way through traffic into Manhattan but it wasn’t until I saw her determined progress through the crowded terminal I was sure it was she.

At eighty-nine, Edna, a retired lawyer, still didn’t know what "retired" meant. She advised women’s organizations and supported their progress toward the proverbial "glass ceiling." Edna wasn’t a bra-burning feminist. She believed for women to evolve and compete for good jobs with good pay, creditable educations were pre-requisites and career plans essential. Edna was a role model, as well, for those of us who’d abdicated our careers for motherhood. Widowed in her thirties, with three small children, Edna returned to college and earned her law degree from Columbia University. Retiring at sixty-five, she turned to teaching law and devoting time to women’s shelters helping victims of domestic abuse plan lives outside their scope of what they could become instead of what they had become. That day, she was on her way to the U.N. Building to work for women’s rights on an international basis. Her humanitarian and selfless determination to help others help themselves was exemplary.

On the reality show "Real Housewives of — (city of your choice)," misnomered "housewives" exemplify everything Edna was not. They epitomize self-indulgence with extravagant pursuits extraordinary to our difficult economic times and engineer problematic situations for which they must apologize to aggrieved friends and family. Hardly "housewives" as I knew/know them and certainly not role models for their children or anyone else’s. Qualities once thought as basic and essential to our society — honesty, modesty, discretion, loyalty, to name a few — are ignored. The machinations of their world barely seem plausible let alone "real" and the dichotomy between Edna’s goal to make the world a better place and the housewives’ frenetic ambition to buy more, show more is immeasurable.

Fortunately, there are "real" reality shows. On "Top Chef," products requiring skill and labor are judged by experts, and who can deny the teamwork and love Carlo’s "familia" shares on "Cake Boss." And don’t I wish I had one iota of "Project Runway’s" designers’ creativity as they fashion shapeless material into trendy garments — such talent and determination to excel.

"It’s Me or the Dog" — now that’s a show with positive messages. The spunky Victoria Stillwell tackles unruly canines and their owners. She teaches understanding, patience, and positive reinforcement.

A Furry Tale

I was swept away the first time I visited a dog park. Literally—off my feet, on my back. A new dog park had opened. I thought my daughter’s deranged Min-Pin, Lukie, nee Lucifer, would love the freedom of a park. I have a Princess Poodle. You won’t find this breed listed under A.K.C. Chelsea simply was born into the wrong species—she was meant to be a Princess Human. This red-haired, canine noblewoman likes to be bathed, groomed and walked in landscaped parks. In a flood, it’ll be Lukie, on the roof, barking for the boat to pick him up while Chelsea gracefully poses on the sofa, waiting for a rescuer’s knock on the door.

I knew Chelsea wouldn’t appreciate mingling with the canine commoners, but I was convinced animated Lukie would. The second we entered the parking lot, Chelsea looked at me with dismay. Eight large dogs roamed the enclosure. "You brought me here?" her eyes reproached me. Lukie’s eyes lit up. "Lemme outta here!" he panted. "I gotta get out with them big guys!" (I’ve come to read dog language well.) I could barely restrain him as he tugged to get past the double gates into the grassed pen.

I unleashed him and he tore off, racing toward his new buddies who outsized and outweighed him five times over. Chelsea looked at the mob of bulky creatures as they sniffed Lukie and primly sat down beside me. "Let me know when you want to leave, Lady," she muttered under her breath as she examined her buffed nails. "Not my milieu here." I shrugged. Her choice to mingle or not.

Lukie

Chelsea

At least Lukie was enjoying himself. He was dancing around the big dogs, Gene Kelly without the umbrella or rain. Teasing them—darting away and returning to the posse. "C’mon, ya big sissies. Whatsamatta, can’t run, huh?" His small, muscular body and stubby tail wriggled in anticipation. I thought I saw the German Shepherd raise his brows and nod his head at his comrades. "Voss is das?" he asked. "It’s a Miniature Pinscher, Otto, you know, like a small Doberman," a yellow Lab answered deferentially. "Doberman?" Otto scoffed. "He iss a joke. Ve don’t play mit him. Tell him to go avay." The Lab turned to Lukie who smiled, white teeth glistening. "NAAA NAAA, can’t get me," Lukie taunted. "Big sissies scared?" "Dot’s itt," Otto shook his fur. "Ve go. Men, follow me!"

Lukie got a headstart. He circled, serpentined, streaked, zigzagged across the field leading the furry ribbon of dogs. The pack gained on him. Realizing his tiny stride was no match for his pursuers, he looked for help. Grandma! At full tilt, Lukie ran toward and between my legs. So did Otto. I remember how white and fluffy the clouds seemed as I lay on my back. Owners came to reclaim their giants. We had provided them with a great show.

I limped into my daughter’s house in search of ice for my bruised body. "Did Mommy’s baby have a good time in the doggy park?" Daughter cooed to her dog who bore no evidence of his earlier escapade and seemed eager for his next. "He looks tired," she reproached me as I tied icepacks to my leg and arm. "Maybe the dog park was too much for him. He’s such a timid little guy." Lukie smirked at me. Barely moving his lips he murmured, "It was a blast, Gram—what are we doin’ tomorrow?"

Tina Chippas is a resident of SeaMark Condominiums in North Palm Beach, FL. She has authored an unpublished novel, Affair in Athens, that narrates her grandfather’s heroic sheltering of Salonika Jews during WWII.

In Memoriam

Rebecca Schlam Lutto

January 8, 1922 - July 2, 2011

Contributed by Elinor Newcom

Hard to believe she was 89, until you learn that she was a WAAC in WWII.

Born in New Jersey, with a Master’s Degree in Library Science, one of her jobs was with then Governor of NJ, Robert Meyner, who appointed her to the State Library. Her next position was that of reference librarian of the NJ Law Library. She managed to find time to be a free lance writer for the Jewish Standard, as well.

In addition to National Council of Jewish Women, Rebecca was active in B’nai B’rith, Hadassah, Democratic Club, Yiddish Culture Club, and Congregation Anshei Shalom here in West Palm. She also initiated a monthly book club at the Okeechobee Branch Public Library.

Hobbies included crossword puzzles, bridge, and scrabble. An active researcher, she took on the publicity chair of Hadassah, educating and informing readers. After several years of articles published in the UCO Reporter, many columns were contributed to the Condo News for more than five years, usually featured on the front page.

Dealing quietly with breast cancer, Rebecca used her energy to deal with husband Sy’s final illness. They had a son who died too young, and in her will, the National Psoriasis Foundation was mentioned in his memory. Ruth Katz, a niece in New York, would appreciate contributions to anyone’s favorite charity. Her address is 1273 North Avenue, #6D4, New Rochelle, NY 10804.

Editor’s note: Rebecca Lutto wrote her first essay for the Condo News on January 13, 1999, entitled "My Historic Wedding." Essay of the Week began with her essay on January 20, 1999, entitled "Have Simcha, Will Travel." Mrs. Lutto continued to write her wonderful essays virtually every issue until her final Essay on April 21, 2010, entitled "For Love or Money — But Not For Muscles." Then, on January 12, 2011, she contributed one final article entitled "Volunteer Brings Children’s Chorus to Century Village." The staff of the Condo News extends our sympathies to family and friends of Rebecca Lutto. She will be sorely missed.

Essays by 

Rebecca Schlam Lutto

For Love or Money — 

but Not For Muscles

Quiz: What relationship does the new Health Care Law have to the type of fellow your daughter, grand daughter or great–grand daughter might choose to love and/or marry?

The answer, if you believe in such things, lies in the studies done by professors, psychologists and social scientists. Their research shows that women in developed countries with generous government health care, like Belgium and Sweden, are changing the prehistoric Paleolithic preference for he-men and now choose to marry the more gentle and understanding "metro-sexuals."

The same research shows that women in less-developed nations like Mexico and Bulgaria still prefer the strength and masculinity that cave men needed in order to attract cave women.

The scientists tested young women in thirty countries and asked which face in photographs they preferred. (Actually, the two photos were of the same man, but had been changed slightly by computer software, either to "masculinize" the face, or "feminize" it.) Presto! The women’s preference for either kind of man is revealed.

Another victory for evolutionary psychology – another reason why a girl in Mombasa may prefer a gold miner and a model in Paris marries a ballet dancer. They each want the best for their children.

The women in both camps want healthy children, but the women in the poor countries know that health care is primitive or non-existent and pestilence is likely. So they may prefer a hunk, even though in all groups such bruisers are believed to be less interested in child-rearing and more likely to be uncooperative, unsympathetic and more likely to beat them or their children.

The tests did not include economic questions, but it seems reasonable to assume income is a factor. As girls in advanced countries are now likely to have college degrees and high-paying jobs, they no longer need to marry for money – or for at least a livelihood.

Men are more likely than women to have lost jobs in the current recession. That leaves the wife/mother of the family often the sole breadwinner, and the husband at home caring for the children.

Is it possible to find a strong, sexy man, a good earner but also gentle and sympathetic in the same person? The Wall Street Journal quotes Zsa Zsa Gabor on the subject: "I want a man who’s kind and understanding. Is that too much to ask of a millionaire?"

Road Rest Stops — Unneeded or a "Necessary"

The state of Arizona has closed 13 out of 18 of its highway rest stops to save the $300,000 a year it costs to run each one.

Of all the cost-cutting and fee-raising steps that Arizona has taken to close its huge budget gap, this one has raised the most ferocious hue and cry from the citizenry. My guess is that the loudest protest of this deprivation of a facility necessary to everyone — toilets — has come from its many elderly retiree-citizens.

We South Florida retirees know all too well that with every passing year our need for the "necessaries" grow. I notice that here the homes are more likely to have multiple bathrooms than elsewhere.

The problems of scarce facilities in public places is not new, especially in crowded buildings such as theaters. In New York City, with its many legitimate theaters, there are controversies over the fact that men’s and women’s rest rooms are equal in availability, while women need them more. What with tight pantyhose and possibly other unmentionables, women can make a claim for more facilities than men. Various patchwork solutions are now used, such as unisex rest rooms.

The closing of rest stops is not the only restriction on motorists and roads that legislatures have mandated. How about strict driving-while-impaired (drugs and alcohol) laws, the ban on use by drivers of cell phones, computers and televisions? How about being required to wear a seat belt – especially where we live – Florida?

Most driving laws have the purpose of saving lives. What does the rest-stop closings do – require us to wear diapers?

And if this should come to pass, would the late night comedians have, in addition to their usual aged Florida driver jokes, additional fodder, such as this. "Have you been following the story of this female astro-nut? She drove 900 miles from Houston, Texas, to Orlando, Fla., to confront the woman who was her romantic rival. She drove the whole time wearing a diaper so she didn’t have to make a rest stop. She went to court yesterday and was released in her own incontinence."

First Lady Weighs in on Fat Children

After a year as a mere White House hostess and stay-at-home mom, Michelle Obama has chosen her field of "celebrity advocacy."

It is childhood obesity.

Not that she is merely a celebrity, such as a show-biz luminary. She has semi-official clout. When she calls a conference with people who can help her with her cause, the message is not thrown into important waste baskets. The invitation, after all, it is not just to her house, but to the White House – the people’s house.

Ms. Obama did not choose an easy or non-controversial cause, such as Laura Bush’s campaign for literacy (a natural for a former librarian) or Lady Bird Johnson’s beautification of our landscape. Alas, opponents are already hollering "nanny state" and corporations and huge food industry associations are hiring lobbyists.

Parents may also be a source of loud resistance. Some have already complained about notices from school that their children are overweight. Who likes criticism? Especially not overburdened moms and dads.

Happily, the "stamp out child obesity" cause has many supporters and even a happy fiscal ending, according to a Wall Street Journal editorial. This rare Journal approval of Michelle Obama’s program notes that, if successful, this would greatly lower medical costs in the United States. The editorial notes that federal spending due to obesity increases our tax burden by 36 percent for Medicare and 47 percent for Medicaid.

Another mostly non-debatable initiative featured in the First Lady’s plan is her call for increased physical activity by children. Ms. Obama cites the health value of walking or biking to and from school and more playtime and facilities for outside activity both at home and in schools. She advocates safe walkways and crosswalks at intersections so that students can use them safely.

Surely President Obama, tall and lean, sets a good example for his wife’s goals. When President William Howard Taft was inaugurated in 1909 he was 6 feet tall and weighed more than 300 pounds, the largest man to ever serve as president. His First Lady, Helen Herron Taft, did not need to choose a pet project to tout publicly; it was not the custom then.

So Michelle Obama starts off with an advantage, a thin spouse. Could she fight fat as Mrs. Taft? Hardly likely.

For the Love of Pasta

Dear reader, do you remember family mealtimes before 1965 when spaghetti was on the menu?

Those were the dark days when kids in highchairs tried to eat the much-loved Italian delicacy but most of it landed on the child, the chair or the walls.

In 1965 a parent-liberator invented a new toddler-friendly shape of pasta: Spaghetti Os. Donald Goerke, the inventor of the doughnut-shaped version intended for children, died recently at 83. He was a retired marketing manager at Franco-American, a division of the Campbell’s Soup Company.

Goerke’s mission was to design an incarnation of spaghetti that would withstand canning and reheating, and that children could eat without creating a battlefield-like scene in American homes. The shapes that were rejected included baseballs, cowboys, spacemen and stars.

Since 1965 Spaghetti Os have become a standard item in American pantries. More than 150 million cans are sold each year. My guess is that a few million cans are sold to adults who could never learn to twist the original limp strands on a fork, as gourmets do. (Some restaurants give diners who order spaghetti a bib to wear.)

Now that Spaghetti Os and their competitors have saved many a kitchen and dining room, we can go back to thinking of pasta as a food – equally esteemed by both gourmands and nutritionists.

Just as cheese is consecrated as "milk’s leap to immortality," so pasta represents the apotheosis of flour and water. Gourmets and prize-winning chefs will argue eternally about which shape goes with which sauce, but both agree on its adaptability and infinite ability to combine with a thousand other foods to delight eaters.

There are enough shapes and sizes of pasta to fill a small dictionary. Most of the names are in Italian, and describe the shape of the objects outside the kitchen that they resemble. Some examples are macaroni (tubes or cylinders), fusilli (swirls), and lasagna (sheets).

The names may be Italian, but some form of pasta is served worldwide, from Brazil to Hong Kong. In Italian, all pasta names are plural, so let’s get together and tie on our spaghetti bibs. Buon appetito!

Class of 2013 Attire: A Barrel

What will current college freshman (class of 2013) wear? If the recession and business losses continue, quite possibly a barrel held up by suspenders.

According to a recent survey of 297 campuses, this year’s freshmen saw dollar signs in every facet of college choice, career goals and life on campus. Concern for the financial side of a college education was the highest it has been since the Nixon Administration.

Those of us who remember the role of higher education in America before World War II should not be shocked by the survey numbers. In the 1920s college students appeared to be less interested in quantum physics than in football games that they attended wearing raccoon coats and packing flat flacons of bootleg liquor and waving banners touting their college team.

Of course a few "have-nots" managed to earn a degree without a raccoon coat or even a decent roof over their heads. The teenage Ronald Reagan arrived at his college with no money and presented himself to the school’s president, who was impressed by the tall, strapping youth. He arranged for Reagan to sleep in a college out-building and work to pay for his tuition and other expenses.

My impression of the 1930s was of the subway commuters in New York City who were privileged to attend City College or Hunter College with tuition free. Since I lived in the New Jersey boondocks (as my New York relatives called the area), those schools were not available to me.

My route to college was unlike Ronald Reagan’s. I took the statewide exam for high school graduates and did well. This gave me tuition at a state school ($200 for a college year). For room and board, I lived with a family as a babysitter and dishwasher. There was also some salary: one dollar a week for a bus pass.

Reagan and I date from the days of a rough road to college for un-rich kids. Before the GI Bill, before federal grants and many other scholarships – and before college loans that are easy to accept but hell to pay back.

How about some federal aid for repayment of college loans – similar to mortgages?

Politically Correct White House Dining

The White House state dinner for the Prime Minister of India and his wife was a first for the Obama presidency.

It was also remarkable for its size (320 guests), which necessitated that it be held on the White House lawn in a tent.

The menu, which encompassed varied religious, ethnic, political, gastronomic and environmental restrictions and celebrations, can be studied like an ancient parchment.

First, the guests of honor are religious vegetarians. So, although the dinner was meatless, it did include a dish derived from animals: prawns. Prawns are similar to shrimp; both are shellfish.

The Hindu religion forbids the eating of animals. Are shellfish not animals? This religious "definition" reminds me of definitions of foods in the Jewish religion. The eating of shellfish is forbidden in strict Judaism, but fish with fins are permitted.

Another nod to tradition in Jewish food rules is honey. The land of "milk and honey" had few available sweeteners in Biblical times and the science of food chemistry was, of course, unknown. So, assuming that honey was only "housed" by the bees who brought it to the hive from their source in blossoms, the Ancients assumed they were of plant origin.

As a nod to the current rage for kitchen gardens and local farmers’ markets, there was White House arugula and honey at the state dinner. The culinary heritage of the hosts was indicated by chick peas, okra and collard greens.

So, considering the complexity of selecting the foods, the Obama White House cannot be criticized for a few minor slips. While the hosts were concentrating on the religious, bipartisan, diversity and health restrictions of the menu, they can be forgiven for a security boo-boo: allowing a couple of party-crashers in.

Archie Bunker vs 'Sex and the City'

When I heard that Archie Bunker’s armchair had been given the honor of placement in the Smithsonian Institution, my eyes were opened to the importance of popular culture.

Here was Archie, who worked on a loading platform and personified American blue-collar workmen in the television sit-com "All in the Family" raised to historic stature. His chair, which he wouldn’t let anyone else sit on, became a revered icon, because that is what it symbolized to him.

However, appropriate as it was to consecrate Archie’s chair to signify Archie’s status as king of his castle, choosing Carrie Bradshaw’s laptop computer for the Smithsonian seems to me less suitable.

The impression I take away from "Sex and the City" is that of recreational sex in a glittering city, namely New York City’s suave reaches of Manhattan where no one needs to look at price tags or the right side of a menu.

The Smithsonian curator who selected Carrie’s laptop for the museum says, "The laptop is an iconic prop symbolizing Carrie as a chronicler of contemporary society." He justifies Carrie’s historic role by adding, "She represents the latest stage in the progression from Lucy Ricardo and Mary Tyler Moore — and more broadly, the evolution of the role of women in America."

Archie’s chair, dark and threadbare, seems at home in a museum of history. It bears the patina of dust and long use, comfortable in the same repository with the desk on which Thomas Jefferson wrote the Declaration of Independence and Abraham Lincoln’s top hat.

And to represent "Sex and the City," I nominate a pair of Manolo Blahnik shoes.

How did depression kids manage to get along during those "good old days?" Few are around today to tell of some of their experiences of 75 years ago. They were the years from about 1930 and into 1940 that brought changes into almost every home in our town. For most people, there was the need to move into different homes and acquire different life-styles from what we had become accustomed to as youngsters. I, for one, moved with my mother and older brother to a small apartment from a 3 bedroom house. My little sister moved in with our grandmother a few blocks away.

During the afternoon, I delivered a paper route six days a week. The evenings were taken up with homework, and it was Friday nights and Saturdays that gave me the freedom to hang out with the guys.

Our "hangout headquarters" was in front of the corner candy store just next door from our place. If you were lucky, you could earn a few nickels by going to someone’s home nearby when they were called to answer a call on the public phone in the store. They had to give you a tip or they wouldn’t be called in the future if they were stingy and left you empty handed. It could rain, sleet and snow, but we were there to make small talk and resolve all the problems facing the world. The owner of the store was always hoping that we would come in and spend a few cents. For that reason, we were seldom chased away, and then too, the person called to the phone might buy some small item while in the store, to show their appreciation for getting called.

Saturday night was something special for us poor kids on the corner, for we would be huddled in the cold weather, stomping our feet, but too lonely to just go home. This was before the days of TV. At the next corner was a missionary store. It was just a regular 2 story house with store front windows that were covered with curtains. The family lived in the back of the house and on the second floor. The first floor area had rows of wooden folding chairs arranged with a center aisle.

As I recall, there was seating for about 30 people. At the furthest end of the store was an elevated platform and rostrum. In the rear of the place was a kitchen with stove and sink. Hanging on the wall behind the platform was a wooden cross and a large picture of Jesus.

About 8 PM on Saturday night, some of the poor in the neighborhood drifted in along with the bunch of fellows that I was hanging out with on the next corner. We all sat and got warm during the one hour sermon. It was a relief to get into a place that was heated and provided a bathroom and refreshments. Finally, prayer and eventually the singing portion for the service ended. On a table at the side of the podium was a large table and on it a plate with donuts piled on it. All through the service I stared at the donuts for they represented the only delicacy that I would have all week. The smell of hot coffee began to permeate the room and we became restless as the hour seemed to drag on and on.

Finally, the preacher’s wife would enter the room carrying a large pot of hot coffee. It seemed like forever that we finally came to the closing prayer. The minister talked on and on, while we sat and stared at the donuts on the table. We finally were able to rush to the table in the room and we all reached out to grab the day-old donuts that was the reward for our listening to the Gospel. The minister each week was able to get those stale donuts from the local bakery at little or no cost. The fact that they were a little harder than fresh and all the same type did not lessen their appeal to us kids and adults alike.

The coffee was strong, no milk and no sugar was served, but that donut was a gift from heaven for those of us that had the patience to wait. It made no difference to many of us who were of different religions. The donut and warmth of the room were ample compensation for the hour of listening. I returned week after week, for the donut.

Home

Special Features

Brag Book

Decorating Concepts

The Clubhouse Gallery

Gardening

Fit After Fifty

Sports

Out & About

TCCA News

Local News 

Yesteryear Village

Veterans News

Gulf Wars

Ask the Lawyer

Rembaum's Association Roundup

Community Association Counselor

Letters to the Editor/ Opinion Articles

Classified Ads

  Real Estate

  Display Ads

Ad Form

Advertising Rates 

Contact Us